Coffee
by The Talentless Hack
Summary: one shot, AU, SaitouTokio. Place: a diner. Players: a waitress and a police inspector. Plot: what might have been. Go. ..Edited 2.24.2010..


**A/N:** O.o …I have no words. Seriously, I have no idea where this came from. It was just sort of…_there_…one day, so I typed it out. I was hoping to have it up by the end of February 14th (the day inspiration…er…spontaneously came into being?), but that obviously didn't happen, so…yeah.

**Also:** please don't ask me to continue this. I'm not going to. It's a one shot, it's gonna stay a one shot, and I think it plays out much better that way.

**This** **one shot is dedicated to **_**twstdmind**_**, whose most auspicious day of birth happens to be today. Happy Birthday!!

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Disclaimer: Not mine—not now, not ever. Saaaaadfaaaace.

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_Coffee_

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

Tonight was going to be a long one, so he stopped in at a diner not far from the precinct for a cup of coffee. It was a popular place with the men, this particular diner, because it was open twenty-four hours, so you could go in any time of the night and grab fresh coffee and a hot meal and feel human again. Usually, he sufficed himself with an old pot of black sludge and some stale crackers, but tonight he was feeling threadbare and worn, and going out seemed like a better idea.

The diner was basically dead when he walked in. What appeared to be the lone waitress on duty looked up when the bell above the door chimed, and she smiled at him. He bobbed his head in return and headed to the counter, hands shoved into his trouser pockets. He dropped into a seat with a sigh, then eyed the menu behind the counter, idly wondering if he should eat something while he was there. The waitress finished wiping off a table, then walked over to where he sat.

"Hello," she said cheerfully.

"Yo," he said.

She wasn't at all put off:

"What would you like?"

"Coffee."

Her smile was warm.

"Want some food to go with that?" she asked kindly.

"Just coffee," he replied, shaking his head, and she nodded.

She set a thick ceramic cup on the counter, and cautiously poured coffee into it, and he was amused by the fact that she took so much care not to slosh any onto the countertop—this time of night, most people were too tired to be conscientious.

"Cream?" she asked.

"Nope," he said, picking up the cup and taking a sip, and she inclined her head and returned the pot to its place, then left him to his coffee while she went to check up on the few customers she had.

He watched her out the corner of his eye. She wasn't a young woman; if he had to guess at age, he'd put her somewhere close to his thirty-nine. Her hair was cut short, in what he liked to call the "housewife bob," and she had laugh lines on her face and a thin gold band on her left ring finger. Nice legs, though, he noticed absently as his eyes flickered down past her knee-length skirt—the unflattering uniform she had to wear had that redeeming quality, at least.

People left, little by little, while he nursed his coffee, until it was just him and the waitress (…and a guy in what looked like a cook's jacket, sprawled over a booth seat way in the back, arm over his face and dead to the world). She hummed while she bussed the tables; he liked her voice, even though it wasn't very good—she was slightly off-key.

She returned to the counter soon enough, all her other business finished.

"Refill?" she asked with a smile.

"Sure," he said, setting his cup down, and she nodded and once more filled his cup, again taking care not to spill.

His gaze went to her name tag—he hadn't bothered with getting her name before. "Tokio" in neat black characters stared back at him.

"Long night?" he asked, picking up his cup, as she returned the pot to the base.

She laughed, and he smiled at the sound—it was nice.

"It's always a long night," she said.

"I hear that," he said, pulling out his carton of cigarettes. "Want one?" he asked, pulling a cigarette from the pack.

She eyed it then him, and her mouth quirked into a rueful grin before she shook her head.

"I quit years ago," she admitted.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah? I've "quit" six times in the past decade." He slipped the cigarette between his lips and smirked. "You never really quit."

She smiled at him.

"True as that may be, I haven't had one in over ten years, and I think I'll keep it that way. I appreciate the gesture, though."

He shrugged, then lit his cigarette.

"Coffee isn't the same without cigarettes," he said, dropping the match he'd used and then shaken out into an ashtray.

"This is true," she said with a nod.

"Mind if I asked why you quit?"

She smiled widely, proudly.

"My boy," she replied, and she reached into the collar of her uniform and tugged out a locket. She opened it and showed it to him, and he leaned forward to see the picture in there better.

A child of at least ten grinned back at him, one of his front teeth missing, a baseball cap over wild black hair. He smirked, then reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet, flipped it open and held it out for her to see.

"Three sons," he said. "Oldest is seven, the youngest was just born two months ago."

"You have me beat," she said with a laugh, snapping her locket shut. "Three boys! How does your wife manage, I wonder?"

"She finds a way," he said with a shrug, shutting his wallet and sliding it back into his pocket. "Your husband watching your son?"

Her smile dimmed a little, became sad.

"No. His grandmother's watching him tonight."

"So he's working late too," he concluded, setting his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and picking up his coffee cup.

"Could be," she said with a careless shrug, "but I wouldn't know anything about it. Haven't for a long time."

"Divorced?" he asked, eyes going to the ring on her left hand, wondering why she wore it if—

"If I confessed, would the interrogation end?" she asked, smiling faintly, one eyebrow raised, and the question startled him into meeting her gaze.

"What?" he asked, frowning. "What interrogation?"

"'Divorced?'" she said, trying to mimic the cadence of his voice and unable to because hers wasn't deep enough.

He wasn't quite sure what to say. He knew she was teasing him, but she wouldn't have mentioned it at all if it didn't bother her somehow.

"Sorry," he said finally; all of a sudden he was sixteen again, talking to a girl but too stupid from nerves to do anything but look like an ass. "Hard to turn it off—well, hell, you probably know all about it. Guys at the precinct are always coming over here."

"Most of them are more interested in asking me out on dates than asking questions," she confided with a grin.

"I really am sorry," he said, feeling ill at ease in his own skin.

Her smile lost its teasing, mischievous edge.

"It's okay," she said, shrugging. "It's sorta nice—that you're interested in talking, I mean. Most of the time, your guys from the precinct just want to raise a little hell and hit on the wait staff."

He nodded, absently fingering the handle of his cup, unsure what to say next. She was quiet for a moment, then sighed and leaned on the counter, propping her chin up with one hand.

"I'm still married," she said, lips quirking into a strange smile he didn't know how to categorize—he wanted to call it "self-deprecating" but it didn't fit exactly right. "In theory, anyway."

It took him a moment to realize she had answered his question, and another moment before he decided he didn't care if she did think he was interrogating her; ah, curiosity—it was both blessing and curse, though which of the two it was right now was hard to say.

"How long since you heard anything from him?"

"Oh, at least since Eiji was five," she said. "Eiji's my boy," she added with a quick smile, the kind of smile proud mothers wore when they talked or even thought about their children.

"You should divorce the scumbag," he advised, disgusted—what kind of man skipped out on his wife and kid, honestly?

She shrugged.

"I don't know where he is," she admitted.

"Don't need to at this point—no court in the country would turn you down, not after five years of neglect."

"What makes you say five?" she asked curiously.

"Your son's ten, right?"

"Eleven—he'll be twelve in June."

"So it's closer to seven," he said thoughtfully, picking up his cigarette again, one eyebrow raised. "You might as well be divorced at this point."

"Hmm," was all she had to say on it.

"How long've you been here? Eight hours?" he asked.

"Longer," she admitted with a grin—this one was clearly self-deprecating. "I wanted the extra hours, so I took someone else's shift for her."

It went without saying that she needed the money.

He smirked.

"Lemme buy you a cup of coffee," he said.

She laughed.

"Oh no, I'm fine," she said, waving a hand.

"One cup won't hurt," he said. "'Sides, it's dead here."

She hesitated, eyes drifting over to the cigarette he held.

"Sit down for a while," he said. He smiled at her when she met his gaze again. "I'd enjoy the company, and you can't be comfortable standing back there."

She watched him, then smiled faintly.

"I guess I could sit for a minute," she said, almost shyly, and picked up a thick ceramic mug and filled it with coffee before coming out from behind the counter and daintily slipping into the seat next to him.

He wordlessly pulled out another cigarette and held it out to her, and after a moment's hesitation, she accepted it, and he lit it for her.

"You're a bad influence," she said, amused, and he grinned.

"Wife says the same thing," he admitted with a shrug, and her smile widened.

"I bet you talked her into marrying you so slick she didn't realize what had happened—you look like the type."

"Is that a compliment or criticism?"

"Whichever you like."

"Compliment, then."

She laughed, and he smiled; she had an honest, happy laugh that made you want to join her, or just sit quietly next to her and bask in the glow of it.

He decided on the second one.

Conversation ambled and rambled, and they went through two more cigarettes and another cup of coffee each before he'd realized he should have been gone at least an hour and a half ago.

He stayed.

"What are your boys' names?" she asked.

"Tsutomu's the oldest. Then Tsuyoshi, and Tatsuo. Tsutomu's a hellion, always has been—surprised the hell out of me when the wife said she wanted another one."

"How old is Tsuyoshi?"

"Four."

"You've spaced them out pretty well," she said admiringly, lips quirking into that odd little smile again.

"That was the wife's doing, not mine."

She hummed, expression thoughtful, far away. "I think Eiji would have liked a little brother—sometimes I think he's too alone."

"Hn," was all he could contribute—he didn't know what to say to that, and so decided that nothing at all was best.

She looked over at him and smiled. "What are your boys like?" she asked. "I know you said the oldest one was trouble—what about the middle boy?"

He had never been the type to talk much about his sons. Oh, he was proud of them, but he wasn't the sort given to bragging about them. Which was why he thought it was strange that the words came so easily now, with this waitress with the honest, happy laugh who hung on every word like it meant something.

Maybe it did. He'd never understood women.

Once he'd decided he'd talked long enough, he asked her about her boy. She didn't hesitate a second. Her face lit up like noon when she talked about him, and he found himself smiling, liking her even more—the love rolled off her in waves, and he decided the kid was lucky; what he lacked in affection from his father, his mother more than made up for.

"He was a good baby," she said nostalgically. "Quiet. Good nurser. Good sleeper. All around good. Still good, too," she said, smiling into her coffee cup. She dimmed a little when she said, "Too good, sometimes—he never complains that I'm not around as much as I should be. I miss a lot. My mother took him for his first haircut, and she saved a lock of his hair for me. When she gave it to me, I cried like a baby. I felt horrible for missing it."

He sat quiet and listened. Not because he didn't know what to say, but because he knew she didn't want him to say anything. Sometimes people wanted advice. Sometimes they wanted comfort. And sometimes, they just wanted you to listen.

So he sat and he listened and he watched her and knew, in his gut, in his soul, that if things had been different and his life had gone another way, he would have married his waitress with the honest, happy laugh. It was just one of those things you knew without there being a basis of fact in it.

He felt incredibly sad, when he realized that.

The next time he checked his watch, sunrise was half an hour away. He should have been home two hours ago.

He stayed.

The false gray dawn was just fading away into pale lemon and pink when the diner door opened, and a young woman with dark hair and blue eyes walked in, yawning. She paused and blinked owlishly when she saw them sitting at the counter.

"Tokio-san?" the girl asked.

"Hey Kaoru-san," his waitress said, smiling sheepishly.

"What are you doing here?" the girl asked, bewildered.

"Oh, I took Misao-san's shift. She couldn't really make it, and since I was going to be here anyway—"

"Go home!" Kaoru ordered, frowning. "Go see your little boy before he has to go to school."

His waitress watched the girl, then smiled brilliantly.

"Right," she said.

She wouldn't let him pay for the coffee, saying it was on the house. So he tried to make her accept the money for herself, which had her blushing and waving her hands, expression an amusing mix of horror and humor, as she said she couldn't possibly. The girl ended it when she, smirking, said,

"Oh just take the money, Tokio-san. He's sweet on you and you deserve it."

The blush deepened, but his waitress meekly accepted the money and carefully folded it into one of her pockets; the girl went off to wake up the guy in the cook's jacket, muttering under her breath about lazy, shiftless Broomheads who masqueraded as cooks.

He walked her to the train station, unwilling to leave just yet. He thought about the paperwork he'd ignored, the wife and children he hadn't gone home to yet, then pushed them out of his mind.

He'd be selfish a little while longer before he returned to his responsibilities.

The walk was quiet. She seemed thoughtful, and he was content to watch her out of the corner of his eye. When they reached the station, she stopped and turned to him.

"Thank you," she said. "You didn't have to walk me, you know."

"I know," he said. He let the rest of the sentence—_I wanted to_—linger in the air between them.

Some things didn't need to be said out loud.

"You shouldn't have given me the money," she said softly.

"I wanted to," he said this time. "You didn't have to sit and have coffee with me. I appreciated the company."

She blushed.

"I probably talked your ear off," she said, embarrassed.

"I didn't mind," he said.

Silence descended again, and then she smiled.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"No problem," he said just as quietly.

He thought about leaning down and kissing her cheek. He thought about reaching out and tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. He thought about going home to her every night, about basking in the glow of her honest, happy laugh until he was old and gray, about listening to her hum off-key until he died.

Yeah, he would have married her in a heartbeat.

He watched her disappear into the station, stayed until the train had come and gone and the sun was climbing higher and higher in the sky and dawn was unfurling like a golden cape over the city.

It wasn't even a tenth as bright as one of her smiles.

He turned and started walking home.

His wife and boys were waiting.


End file.
